Arcturians know all the pain there is on Earth,
How impossible it is to hold harmonies in form
More than provisionally, how much knowledge lies
Outside the broadcasted frequencies
But their tones are all conflict and resolution,
Like medieval organ music, not a trace of
What it feels like to be here,
Eyes wide and hands full of light.
The perverse comes natural to us.
We find the impossible paths in
To hope amid the forlorn, to dream
Across the concrete, to give birth through grief.
